another kind of heroism
by blue-jean-serenades
Summary: It's weird, Andrew thinks, because he always expected to die at the end of all this. Post-Chosen, oneshot.


Xander gets a lot closer to Andrew after the world doesn't end.

It's weird, Andrew thinks, because he always expected to die when all the real shit went down. He never envisioned life after the apocalypse, because there _was _no life after the apocalypse—how could he survive, when he wasn't one of the Scoobies, when Buffy didn't love him like she loved the others, when he wasn't part of the Chosen One's inner circle? It's always like that in comic books: the side characters die, and the heroes survive. _The way of the world_, he thinks to himself in those grand moments when he becomes something else, something _greater_, with a camera in his hand.

It's weird because he always expected Anya to live, too.

Anya and Xander were meant to be together. Andrew knows this in the same way that he knows that the sky is blue, that the universe is infinitely big, that the first time Lois Lane kisses Clark Kent is in _Superman #3_ after Superman saves the town from a flood. It is an irrefutable fact, and he knows that the ending was never supposed to go this way. That happily ever after is not supposed to come with a side of grief.

But he doesn't say anything, because Xander has enough problems without Andrew's delusional fantasies on top of it all.

At first it's just to ask him about her death, to squeeze every last detail from the day Andrew wants so desperately to forget until he thinks he'll never sleep again for the rest of his life. Xander wants to know how, he wants to know why, he wants to know _where _and _when _and _what were you doing _and _why didn't you save her_. Andrew tells him that she was brave and valiant, that she fought until the end, that she went down surrounded by hundreds of corpses of all the demons she killed. He tells him that she laughed as she died, that she said something sarcastic and deadpan the second before her stomach was slit open and her guts spilled all over the floor. He tells Xander a story like the ones he reads in comic books, and it's exactly what Xander needs to hear.

Andrew doesn't tell Xander that it didn't really happen the way he says. He doesn't tell him that he didn't really see her die, that instead he was hiding in the corner screaming for Anya, for his mother, for Warren. He doesn't tell Xander that he nearly shit his pants he was so scared, and that Anya could have died from a goddamn heart attack and Andrew wouldn't have known the difference because he wasn't even watching, didn't even care, could only think about himself and his life and all the things he didn't do in his pathetic twenty years on this earth. Andrew doesn't tell Xander that he was huddled in the corner sobbing with fright when the moment came, and that the only thing running through his mind was that he was going to die and he wasn't even fucking old enough to drink.

He thinks Xander must know anyway, somewhere in the back of his mind. Xander's smart, and he knows what a coward Andrew is. He has to know that Andrew's lying to him, has to realize—somewhere underneath all that grief and regret—that Anya didn't die a hero. She died like the rest of them, harsh and violent and bloody and far too young to meet the inside of a coffin.

Later it's not the stories. Later it's just the company, the brief respite from the movement and bustle of the house, from Buffy and Willow and Dawn and Giles all running around Doing Things. Andrew likes to think that Xander sticks around because he feels comfortable around him, but really it's just a combination of cheap alcohol and embarrassment at looking weak in front of his friends. Andrew isn't quite sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that Xander doesn't worry about feeling embarrassed around him, but he doesn't care, anyway. It's enough for Xander to just be there; the rest of it isn't important.

At least not-dying has given him a better sense of perspective.

It's given him perspective, and maybe it's given him a little bit of sight, too. He thinks that maybe he and Xander are fundamentally the same: they are both normal, deeply and irrevocably _ordinary_ in a way that people like Buffy and Willow can't possibly understand. They linger on the outsides, forever seeing the things that the others don't. The only difference is that Xander is brave and Andrew isn't, that Xander is _important_ (he keeps the group together, reminds them who they are with jokes and camaraderie and laughter when the darkness threatens to overwhelm them) and Andrew isn't. Andrew knows exactly who he is and where he stands—or at least he did, until Xander came along and screwed it up, until he managed to convince Andrew (briefly, quietly, for one tiny moment in the rush of evil and death and violence) that he mattered, that he was important, that he would be missed.

"Hey. You know I don't really want you to die, right?"

It's the middle of the night on the eve of the world's last day, and everyone else is asleep. Andrew sleeps in a chair, because there is only so much room and there are people who didn't murder their best friend who need a bed more than he does—and by _sleep_, what he really means is that he stays awake and thinks about all of the therapy he is going to need someday—and by _someday_, what he really means is never, because Andrew knows without a doubt that he won't live to see next week.

He thinks a lot these days. There isn't much else to do, what with being a hostage and all that. It isn't even that they're worried about what he'll do anymore; mostly Andrew thinks they're just too lazy to figure out what to do with him. He doesn't blame them: even _he_ doesn't know what else to do with himself.

Xander's standing with his back to Andrew, peering at the fridge, and Andrew's never known anyone who can sound both serious and nonchalant at the same time.

"Um," he says. "Hostage, remember?"

Xander grabs a carton of orange juice and closes the fridge. The tiny white light clicks out, turning harmless kitchen appliances into looming, undefined shadow-monsters. Andrew tries to pretend he's not scared, tries to pretend that the words _from beneath you, it devours _aren't screaming in his head—because Buffy or Warren or Giles wouldn't be scared, and Xander sure as hell isn't. "Believe me, buddy, I remember," he says. "It's just that, all joking aside, we do make a lot of death threats, and you should probably know that I'm reasonably sure nobody has plans to carry them out yet. We sort of think death threats are fun around here."

"Fun," repeats Andrew, because he can't think of anything else to say.

"Well, yeah." Xander hops up on the table, sitting with his back against the window. "It's like bowling, but significantly more intimidating." He pops open the carton and takes a swig. "You know, that would be a good Sunnydale motto," he muses. "Welcome to Sunnydale, where death threats are fun. Also, where the realization of said threats is not outside the realm of possibilty."

Andrew is terrified just _looking _at the window, so he looks at his feet instead. "You shouldn't drink orange juice out of the carton. It's unsanitary."

There's a pause where Andrew is almost positive Xander is giving him a funny look, and then he chuckles. "Eh, what the hell." The pale not-quite-darkness of the light from the window illuminates Xander's shrug. "We're all probably gonna die tomorrow, right? The way I see it, a little breach of etiquette won't trigger the apocalypse before…well, before the _actual _apocalypse triggers the apocalypse."

"Come on. It's not like _you're_ gonna die." Andrew can't resist—Xander has to know it's true, that the universe has some sort of unwritten law against letting heroes die. After all, he reads comic books, too.

Silence for a moment. "What, and you will?" It sounds like it's trying to be a joke, but doesn't quite make it there.

"Yeah." Andrew thought he was used to the idea by now, but something about saying it aloud makes the room a little colder. _From beneath you, it devours_. "That's the way it works."

"Not necessarily." Xander takes another swig of orange juice, and Andrew watches the muscles in his throat move. "If everyone who wasn't Buffy was somehow destined to die when the world ends—and, believe me, we've had more than one world-ending situation in Sunnydale since I've been around—then I'd be long gone by now. So would Dawn, for that matter. And hey, Dawnie was supposed to die _anyway_, but she's still walking and breathing and doing all sorts of fun stuff. And Giles, and Spike, and T—" He swallows the sound before it can come out, and quickly moves on. "Honestly, I'm hoping Spike will kick it any day now, but he's still hanging around, stinking up the place."

Andrew feels a rush of shame, because it's his fault that Warren killed Tara, his fault that Willow nearly destroyed Sunnydale, his fault that even now, months later, the shadow of grief still lurks in the corners of their minds. "But that's not the way it works," he says. "It's not about Buffy. It's about heroes."

Xander bursts out laughing. It's the last reaction Andrew had expected. "What, so only the heroes get to survive? Man. Then Buffy really should be the last one standing, huh? I mean, we always knew that, in the end—that Buffy would either be the last one left, or she'd be dead and we'd all go with her—but I never figured anyone would come out and say it." Xander smiles, but there's still a shadow in his voice. He fidgets with the eye patch, trying to cover up a wince. "Well, good for you. I admire honesty in a person. Also cold-blooded murder."

"You're intentionally misunderstanding me," says Andrew. He ignores the quip. Xander's always quipping, and it doesn't feel personal this time—it feels like an excuse. "You've read _The Amazing Spider-Man_. Don't tell me the concept of sacrifice is foreign to you."

"The concept of _sacrifice_?" Xander shakes his head. "Life isn't a comic book, Andrew. I mean, I wish it was—so many girls with large chests and comparatively tiny waists—but there's no such thing as the concept of sacrifice. Not in the real world. There _is_ no sacrifice, okay? There's just death. Death and blood and pain. People don't go out in bursts of glory."

"Heroes do," says Andrew, and refuses to be swayed. He has to believe in good, has to believe in the ability of light to triumph over the dark—because if it isn't true, then what's the point? If _Star Wars _and _Superman _and _Spider-Man _aren't true, what was it all for—Warren, Tara, Jonathan—what was the point of their deaths?

Andrew can tell Xander wants to deny it, but eventually he just nods. "Maybe," he admits. "But I'm not a hero."

"Of course you are." Andrew's back on solid ground, now: he is good at this, at talking about heroes and villains, good and evil. Comic books have always been more colorful than real life—or maybe they're just more black-and-white, and that makes them easier, less confusing. The motives are always clear, and the path of righteousness is never drawn in shades of gray. It's why Andrew likes them so much. "You're always there, even when Buffy isn't. You saved the world last year, when Willow lost it and started killing everyone—you comforted Dawn when she was feeling upset, and when Buffy was about to let Riley go, you made her realize that she was making the wrong choice—"

"You weren't even there," snaps Xander, and Andrew's mouth closes instantly. "Look, Andrew…you don't know how all that happened. All you know is what you've heard. It's not your fault you're a gullible little loser—and as a fellow gullible loser, I say it with love—but don't act like you know what went down." He closes the carton and slides off the table. The light from the fridge casts a pale sheen over his face, and his back is to Andrew, so that Xander isn't looking at him when he says, "I didn't do those things because I was a hero. I didn't do them because I'm Buffy, with my mission to save the world or whatever. I only did them because I had to. Because there was no other choice."

"That's exactly what a hero is," says Andrew softly, and if he wishes he had his camera, he tries not to let it show. "Someone who has to."

Xander stands still for a minute, and then he closes the fridge, turning to face Andrew. There might be a grin on his face, and there might not be—he can't tell, can't distinguish between the fuzzy darkness and the even fuzzier lines of Xander's face—but there's definitely one in his voice when he says, "Well, maybe there's another kind of heroism, too."

He starts to walk away, and turns. "By the way, I forgot to ask—why are you up so late?"

"Can't sleep," says Andrew truthfully. "I've never slept in a wooden chair before. I think my muscles are atrophying."

Xander raises an eyebrow and then turns back around, heading for the stairs. Andrew feels stupid, but he always feels vaguely stupid, so it doesn't make a huge difference. He goes back to his chair, attempting to make some sort of cushion out of his arm for a few seconds before realizing it's futile.

A pillow lands with a soft thump on his lap. Andrew looks up and sees Xander on the stairs. "It would be a shame if your muscles atrophied before we were finished with the death threats," he says, by way of explanation. Andrew nods and watches him disappear on the stairs, back to being one-third of the Chosen Three, the ones who will always make it through whatever the Big Bad has in store for them because they're heroes, and heroes never die.

Xander reappears on the stairs again. "Hey, Andrew?"

Andrew looks up, startled.

"I don't think you're gonna die," says Xander, and walks away.

It takes several seconds for the implications of this to set in. Andrew still doesn't let himself envision life after the apocalypse, but he feels a little less tired, a little less bone-deep exhausted with his life and his choices and the world. He isn't a hero—he knows he's not a hero, he knows he's never been the type to step up and do the right thing in the face of evil—but maybe he doesn't have to be. Maybe things aren't entirely like they are in the comic books; maybe not everyone _has_ to be a hero.

It's not a revelation—but it's a start, and that's enough.

* * *

FIN.


End file.
